The Lady of Secrets by Susan Carroll Page A

wine for everyone.”
    And no doubt would soon have the entire village befuddled with drink and all the more dangerous for it. Passions always flamed higher when fueled by spirits. Damn the wretched man, Meg thought. She needed to resolve this situation and do it quickly.
    In a few terse words, she told Seraphine what she required. Seraphine frowned in bewilderment and then shrugged, hastening to fulfill her request.
    Meg proceeded to extinguish most of the candles until only one remained. Bridget had gone quieter without her grandmother to witness her performance. She had dragged the coverlet up to her nose, watching Meg’s every move.
    “What are you going to do?” she asked.
    “Cast a spell to cure you, I trust.”
    “Will it hurt?” It was a frightened child’s question. Meg gazed into Bridget’s wide wary eyes and her urge to throttle the girl abated a little.
    “No, my spell is a very powerful one, but it will ease your suffering and clarify your mind.”
    Seraphine returned to the room and passed the object she had been sent to retrieve to Meg, slipping it into her hand. Seraphine was bursting with curiosity, longing to stay to see what Meg was about. But Meg shooed her friend back downstairs.
    “Are you ready?” she asked.
    “I guess so,” the girl whispered. “But what about the hot water and the garlic? Should we not wait for Grandmère to fetch them?”
    “Er—ah, no,” Meg said. “I won’t need the garlic until later. Far better that we begin at once, don’t you think?”
    Bridget nodded in reluctant agreement even though she was clearly dreading the prospect.
    Meg positioned herself before the remaining lit candle, fully aware of the eerie glow it would cast over her face. She wracked her mind for the memory she seldom visited, that of Cassandra Lascelles standing over her steaming copper bowl.
    Meg had gleaned little by way of love, wisdom, or guidance from her late mother. But there was one thing Cassandra had taught her: how to perform the part of a witch.
    Meg spread wide her arms and intoned an incantation in the ancient language of the daughters of the earth, long lost to the present world. She sang out the words at random, nothing but a jumble.
    Bridget lowered the coverlet to her chin, her eyes saucersof blue as she watched Meg. Meg held one fist high above the candle, slowly uncurling her fingers. She switched to French, addressing Bridget.
    “I have here a lock of hair taken from the head of thine enemy. If this be the hair of the true witch that torments thee, when this lock is burned in the flame of the consecrated candle, then shall ye be free.”
    Bridget sat up straighter, scarce breathing as Meg held the lock of hair to the candle flame. Meg muttered a few more nonsense words, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of burning hair.
    She held the wisp of hair until the flame came close to scorching her fingers. Snatching back her hand, she declared, “There, it is done. The spell is broken.”
    Bridget released her breath. “I believe I do feel better.”
    “Truly? Because if I made a mistake, if the hair I burned was not that of the true witch—”
    “Oh, yes. It had to have been. Look. I can even sit up now.” Bridget wriggled upward, bracing her back with the pillow. “I am so grateful to you, milady. I hope I shall be well now, but what is to prevent la Mère Poulet from cursing me all over again?”
    “La Mère Poulet?” Meg feigned a blank look. “She was not the witch tormenting you. It was not her hair that I burned.”
    “Then … then who?”
    “The hair belonged to Denys Brunel.”
    “Denys?” Bridget gasped and shook her head. “No, it cannot have been. It was la Mère Poulet. I saw her, hovering above me on the ceiling.”
    “A mere illusion, conjured up by Master Brunel. It appears he is a most skilled young warlock, but he did not foolme. I have long suspected him. Now I must go tell the others and see that the boy is arrested for